


Ficlet collection

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Bones (TV), Firefly, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Multiple ficlets originally written in November 2010 for various prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shut Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Kirk/McCoy, written for [this](http://i30.tinypic.com/2w3rhn4.jpg) photo prompt.

Jim's so fucking tired, he thinks he could probably sleep for a week. Spock's finally managed to throw him off the bridge, almost literally, and he's been stumbling down corridors for almost ten minutes now, trying to find somewhere out of the way to crash before he finally caves and uses one of the computer terminals at a junction of two corridors to find out where Bones's quarters are.

It takes another ten minutes for Jim to navigate his way through the mess of corridors and lifts and Jeffries tubes before he reaches Bones's door. He leans against the wall and rests for a minute before he attempts the keypad. Half a dozen different codes tried later and the door slides open with barely a sound.

Jim stumbles over the threshold and stops in the middle of the room, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before moving. Bones is already sacked out, curled up on his side, blankets pushed down to the foot of the bed. Jim strips down to his briefs and lays down carefully on the bed, rolling until he's on his stomach and pressed against Bones's chest, his feet tucked under a fold of the comforter.

Jim rests his head next to Bones's on the pillow, but doesn't close his eyes, despite how much he longs to. Bones looks exhausted, with dark rings under his eyes, his jaw darkened by stubble. Jim just watches him, needing to see him, to know that they're both still here and all right.

Bones stirs, his knee pressing against Jim's hip, and throws his arm around Jim's neck, pulling him even closer. "Go t'sleep," he mumbles, his eyes still closed. "Still be here in the morning."

"Yeah?" Jim asks, pressing his cheek more firmly to the pillow.

"Mmhmm," Bones breathes out, his arm a warm and welcome weight around Jim's neck and Jim finally, finally lets his eyes slip shut.


	2. Coin Tricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kirk/McCoy, inspired by this comment by [thistlerose](http://thistlerose.livejournal.com/): _I think Jim did [study magic]. Just little magic tricks like card tricks and pulling coins out of people's ears. Winona taught him, to keep him entertained when he was a child. Later, Jim put those tricks to good use, entertaining children._

It’s not that Jim means to keep it a secret, but it’s not like it’s something that ever comes up in casual conversation. So what if he knows a bit of sleight of hand? It’s not a big deal. At least, not until Bones seems so astounded by it.

“Seriously, Bones, not a big deal,” he says, slouching into the couch cushions and slinging his feet up onto the coffee table. Bones has the _best_ couch, all soft and plush and Jim loves the feeling of just sinking right into it.

“So says you,” Bones says, plopping down next to Jim, the couch cushion letting out a _whooshing_ noise. He looks relaxed in the wake of his daughter’s visit, no matter how short it was; he hasn’t even complained about how unsanitary Jim’s feet on the table is. “How long have you been pulling coins out of people’s ears? And where the hell do you get _coins_?”

“My mom taught me how forever ago,” Jim answers. He digs another coin out of his pocket, rolls it over his knuckles before flipping it at Bones. Bones catches it reflexively, turning it over and studying it.

“This is the Academy logo,” Bones says, moving only his eyes to look at Jim. There’s a question in his raised eyebrow.

“Mom has them special made for me and Sam,” Jim says, taking the coin back and holding it between two fingers. “Every time we hit some academic high point we get a dozen of ‘em. First it was honor roll and then it was academic awards and graduation and college acceptance. Sam got another dozen when he finished college and then again when he started his Ph.D.”

“And you got a dozen when you started at the Academy last year,” Bones says. He’s watching Jim turn the coin over his knuckles with something like rapt fascination. “How come this is the first time I’m hearing about it?”

“I have to make my dozen coins last,” Jim says, slipping the coin up his sleeve and displaying his empty hands for Bones to see. “I won’t get any more till I get my commission.” 

“You know, you don’t have to let people keep them,” Bones points out in what he probably thinks is a very reasonable tone of voice, but sounds more like _you dumbass_ should be appended to the end of that sentence.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jim says, slouching back into his seat. “Most people will never see a coin in their entire life. It’s a novelty and I know I eventually have more coming and even if I didn’t, I know where to get some made.”

He raises his empty hand up in front of Bones’s eyes, flicks his wrist, and suddenly has a coin trapped between two fingers. Bones looks impressed, almost despite himself. Jim taps the flat of the coin against Bones’s nose before dropping it into his lap.

“Besides,” he says, meeting Bones’s eye, “I only do it for people I like.”


	3. Wrapped Up in You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kirk/McCoy

He really should go back to his own quarters, crawl into bed, and attempt to get some sleep. But after twenty-eight hours of being awake and trying to keep this random-ass viral infection in check so it won't kill them all, that's the last thing he wants. Leonard hasn't been alone since Ensign Coldwater came into Sickbay a lifetime ago and he finds that the last thing he wants, now that things are finally under control, is solitude.

He walks right past his own door, past Nyota's and Scott's and Spock's, finally pausing before Jim's door. He doesn't bother to ring the chime, just inputs the same code Jim's always used as his door lock, from his very first semester at the Academy. The door slides open near silently and Leonard steps across the threshold into the dark room.

He dials up the lights using the control panel next to the door before he steps further into the room, the door sliding shut behind him. He slumps against the wall, his eyes sliding shut, suddenly too weary to move any more.

"Hey," he hears and he opens his eyes, his gaze landing on Jim, in blue flannel sleep pants and a gray tee shirt, feet bare as they always are when Jim's off duty in his quarters. His hair is mussed and there's a pillow crease across his cheek.

"Hey," Leonard echoes. His voice is a hoarse croak from dehydration and barking orders all day. He swallows and says again, "Hey."

"You look like shit, Bones," Jim says and Leonard can't help but snort.

"I bet you say that to all the pretty girls," Leonard says, his voice flat with exhaustion. 

"C'mon, let's get you to bed." Jim shuffles across the room and wraps his hand around Leonard's arm, tugging his forward, guiding him towards the half wall that separates the bed room from the rest of Jim's living space.

Leonard lets Jim steer him and strip him out of his rather gross uniform before bundling him in a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt pulled from the top drawer of Jim's dresser. Leonard plops down onto the bed when Jim's done with him, collapsing onto his side, his legs still dangling over the edge of the bed. Jim grabs Leonard's ankles and gently swings his legs up onto the mattress and Leonard grunts his thanks, already mostly asleep.

He barely feels Jim climb over him to insinuate his body between Leonard and the wall, but he does feel Jim press his chest to Leonard's back, curling his body around Leonard's, his left arm wrapped around Leonard's chest.

"G'night," Jim murmurs, his breath puffing against the back of Leonard's neck. Leonard doesn't answer, just grasps Jim's hand with his own before tucking them under his chin and drifting off to sleep.


	4. Fix You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek/Firefly crossover, Spock and River Tam, written for gadgetorious' question of _Spock and River meet. What happens?_

"Captain Reynolds informed me that your mind was damaged by experiments performed on you against your will," Spock says, hands folded on the dinner table, watching River rummage through the cabinets by the stove. She said she was looking for the smartest tea to make for Mister Cobb because 'Jayne needs as much smart as he can get.' Spock can agree with the sentiment, if not the methodology.

River pauses in her search, turning gracefully on one bare foot, her other leg slightly extended, a quite beautiful dancer's posture, one Spock has seen Nyota perform several times. She is clutching a plate to her chest, chipped with a faded Terran floral pattern. "You want to fix my brain."

It's not a question, but Spock answers anyway. "Your mind, yes."

"You cannot fix my brain," River says with quiet certainty. "Brain is broken, warranty null and void. Simon tried, he tried so many times, but it's too broken to be fixed."

"Have you heard of a mind meld?" Spock asks, uncertain if, in this strange universe where the Federation never existed and humans never met the other species of the galaxy, that such a thing would be known by any, let alone a mentally damaged young girl.

"No," River says and Spock can clearly hear the distress in her voice, the mania he was warned about creeping into River's voice and posture. "No no no no no no. You don't get to play with my mind, my mind is mine and you can't have it!"

She's shouting by the end and Spock rises, hands at his sides, and says, "I do not wish to take your mind. I only wish to help you make it your own again."

"You can't have it!" River shrieks and throws the plate straight at Spock, catching him in the shoulder and not the face only because he was able to duck partially out the way in time. But now she's grabbing everything in reach and pitching it across the room towards Spock, still screeching and then her brother is there, wrapping his arms around her, holding her hands down at her sides, but she continues to screech and rave, kicking and biting.

"What did you do to her?" Simon demands, wincing when River jerks her head back into his chin. He holds her still as best he can as the holy man, the one they call Shepherd, rushing in from the direction of the infirmary and sedates River with an already prepared syringe. 

"What the hell is going on here?" Captain Reynolds asks, coming up behind Spock and surveying the wreckage. "What did you say to get her all riled up like that?"

"I merely offered my help," Spock says, meeting the captain's eyes for several long moments. Reynolds is the first to look away.

"Yeah, well, don't do that anymore," he says before crossing the room to help Simon lift River and carry her unconscious form into the infirmary. Spock just watches, wondering exactly what kind of trauma the girl underwent to cause her such turmoil.


	5. Too Many Boneses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bones crossover, Booth & Brennan and Kirk & McCoy, written for gadgetorious: _Spock and Doctor Brennan discuss Kirk and Booth._ It ended up not really meeting the prompt, though.

"Why are we working with the local police on this?" Brennan asks, not even bothering to look at Booth as they maneuver their way through the city morgue, following the inadequate signage towards the autopsy suite. 

"Because they found the body and made a tentative ID," Booth answers smoothly, his hand a steady pressure against her back. 

"Can't you just take over the case?" Brennan asks. "Then I could take the body back to the Jeffersonian and our team can get to work on cause of death and an actual, _verified_ identification."

It's no secret that Brennan doesn't like working with law enforcement outside of the FBI anymore, not since she's been partnered with Booth for all these years. She's too used to his idiosyncratic methods that she has a hard time dealing with more traditional police forces anymore. 

"Hey, I'm not even officially here," Booth protests, raising the hand not pressed against her back up in a gesture that normally indicates either surrender or the lack of hostile intentions. It doesn't make sense in this instance, but it's such a Booth thing to do that Brennan lets it go with little more than a shake of her head. "You were the one called in to consult with the local M.E. I'm just your ride. And here we are.”

Brennan enters the room in front of Booth and immediately wrinkles her nose at the overwhelming scent of decomposed flesh.

“Oh my god,” Booth says and when Brennan turns to look at him, she sees that he’s pulled up the collar of his tee shirt and used it to cover his nose and mouth. “I was hungry, but now I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”

Two men look up from the body on the central exam table and glance their way. The blond one steps forward, his hand outstretched and says with a grin, “You must be Doctor Brennan. I’m Detective Kirk, but feel free to call me Jim. What should I call you?”

“If you must address me at all, Doctor Brennan will suffice,” Brennan says, ignoring the man’s hand and stepping towards the body. She pulls a set of gloves out of the box on the nearby counter and snaps them on.

The man still standing near the body, presumably the man who called her, Doctor McCoy, snorts and turns to Brennan. He doesn’t hold out a hand to shake and Brennan notices that he’s also wearing gloves. She feels a small amount of grudging respect start to form for this man.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Doctor,” he says, stepping back and allowing her room to work. 

Brennan steps right up to the side of the table, her hands hovering in midair and says, “May I?” She receives an affirmative before she reaches for the skull, her fingers fitting into familiar grooves are she examines it from all angles. She moves onto the pelvis then, confirming her initial assessment.

“Male, mid to late thirties,” she says, examining what she can see of the ribs through the remaining flesh. “Compression fractures to his ribcage, possibly severe enough to inhibit breathing.” She turns to Doctor McCoy. “I was told you had made a possible identification.”

Detective Kirk steps forward again, holding out a clear evidence baggie. “We found these IDs on the body,” he says, glancing between everyone present. “Four of them are fake; the fifth is really state issue. We’ve got guys running that down.”

“I’m relatively certain based on facial morphology that this is the same guy that’s in all those pictures,” McCoy says, “but I’m a pathologist, not a forensic anthropologist.”

Brennan takes the baggie of IDs and studies the small photo, gauging this man’s underlying bone structure. She turns back to the body, trying to visualize the face with flesh, wishing Angela was here; Angela’s always been better at this sort of thing than Brennan. After several moments, Brennan is relatively certain that the bone structure matches.

“The statistical probability of this ID belonging to this man is very high,” she says, going with a generality instead of taking the time to calculate an actual number. Detective Kirk doesn’t seem like the kind of man to care for that sort of delay, nor the type of man who desires exact scientific answers. He looks like the type of man to go on his ‘gut feeling,’ much like Booth.

“Awesome!” Kirk exclaims before snatching the baggy right out of Brennan’s hand. “Thank you very much for you assistance, Doctor Brennan. I’ll be sure to call you the next time I’ve got a problem with a bone.”

“Dammit, Jim!” McCoy says, snapping off his gloves before smacking Kirk in the back of the head. “Show some respect!”

Brennan ignores them as best as she can and properly disposes of her gloves. When she turns to Booth, she sees that his jaw is tense and his brow furrowed. He’s upset, most likely at Kirk’s crass attempt at flirting.

“C’mon, Bones, let’s get outta here,” Booth says, holding the door open. Both Kirk and McCoy visibly start and Booth, now looking confused, says, “What?”

“He calls you Bones?” McCoy asks Brennan.

“Yes,” Brennan says simply, not willing to explain the nickname or the fact that, after months of protesting the moniker, it became not only comfortable, but part of her identity. “Why does that matter.”

“It doesn’t,” McCoy says. “It’s just a mighty fine coincidence. Jim here’s called me Bones from almost the moment we met.”

“Yeah, small world,” Booth says impatiently, the hand not holding the door open waving Brennan forward. “C’mon, Bones, or we’ll be late meeting Sweets.”

They don’t have a meeting with Sweets, but it’s as good an excuse as any to get them away from here and back to Brennan’s own lab. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she tells Doctor McCoy before striding from the room, Booth right on her heels.

“Nice to meet you, too!” she hears Kirk say, followed by the sound of what Brennan believes to be McCoy’s palm meeting the back of Kirk’s head again, before the door swings shut.


End file.
